


Don't Smoke in Bed

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, there was a lady named Mulder and a dashing<br/>young secret-whatever with a thing for cigarettes.  Her husband was a<br/>jerk (we all know it).  Scandalous doings ensued.  There were aliens.<br/>And the rest is history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Smoke in Bed

The people in this photograph, from left to right, are William Mulder,  
Stephen Caine, Cassandra Spender, Keith Spender, and Christina Mulder,  
pregnant.  In the black-and-white photograph, the red picnic table shows  
as a dark grey; the patio lanterns are luminous blobs in one corner.  
Washington, Memorial Day, 1961.

B/W.  5" x 7", scalloped edges, photographer unknown.  Private archive  
of Elena Caine, Coventry, West Midlands, England.

*****

I'm sure you remember the song.

I left a note on his dresser  
My old wedding ring  
With these few goodbye words  
How can I say  
Goodbye old sleepyhead  
I'm packing you in  
Like I said  
Take care of everything  
I'm leaving my wedding ring  
Don't look for me  
I'll get ahead  
Remember, darling,  
Don't smoke in bed

Willard Robinson's "Don't Smoke in Bed"

*****

He sprawls in a velvet armchair in this anonymous, expensive Boston  
hotel room.  The space smells of leather and flowers, distantly of the  
chlorine from the pool five storeys below.  Yesterday, he swam in it.    
The pool room has a pre-war, art-deco atmosphere that appeals oddly to  
his sensibilities.  In the ceiling mirrors, he saw himself in the water,  
floating alone, thin and dark-haired, his black trunks scarred on each  
him with two white, vertical stripes.  The chlorine in the water dried  
his skin out almost immediately.  The skin on the back of his hands is  
cracked.

Tonight the hiss of rain and traffic pours in through the open casement  
window.  The adolescent part of his mind that loves machines begins to  
name the vehicles by sound and rhythm alone.  Chevrolet, Ford, Ford,  
International farm truck with brakes that need attention.  Sweet kiss of  
a Mercedes.  He loves the sound of cars.  He doesn't drive for himself  
anymore; he has a driver waiting with the slick, black Rolls to take him  
wherever he wants to go.

The Rolls, like sex and power and nicotine, is addictive.  And he loves  
it.  Under forty, he has a gun, a driver, and bell-boy bringing him  
a late-night snack.  Coffee, chicken-salad sandwich with celery bits.    
Hotel matchbook on top of the red and white cigarette pack.  He lights  
up immediately and balances the cigarette between two fingers as he  
signs the bill.  The date on it, he notices, is incorrect.  Technically,  
since midnight it has actually been April *27th*, 1959.  The bell-boy  
examines the signature.

"Um, sir?" *Sah* - the thick Boston accent.  "You weren't expecting your  
wife tonight, were you?" the boy asks.

"No.  Why?"

"There's a lady at the desk who says she's looking for her husband.  A  
Spender or a Keith.  She looks about half crazy.  I think they're  
getting ready to put her out.  No one wants a scene at this time of night."

He sits up sharply.  "Describe her to me."

"Five-six or five-seven, light brown hair and eyes, lips like a movie  
star, but a long nose - almost makes her look like a Jew.  Not a local,  
I think, from her accent, but dressed nice."

He pushes past the bell-boy into the hall and takes the service stairs  
when the elevator is slow to arrive.  Unlike the rest of the hotel, the  
stairwell is stark emergency cinder block, dank and industrial.  He  
isn't supposed to see it.  Running by the time he reaches the main  
floor.  Swinging doors explode open before him and he is in the lobby,  
shouting her name as she struggles with the uniformed doorman pulling at  
her arm.

"Teena!"

The doorman freezes at the sound of a new voice and she is able to shake  
free.  If these people wished to avoid a scene, they failed.  This is  
most definitely a scene.  A stylish young matron, hopelessly rumpled and  
wet, has physically battled hotel security in front of a guest.  A guest  
who knows her.  One well-timed newspaper photographer could ruin them  
all.

He gathers his wits about him.  When he speaks, his voice drips acid.    
"Just what do you think you're doing to my wife?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the doorman blushes.  "You didn't leave word you were  
expecting her, and she wouldn't give her name . . ."

He pushes past the uniformed man and catches her around the shoulders,  
pulling her in against his chest.  She buries her face in his shirt  
front.  He is fully prepared to stand like this forever, staring down  
the guard and waiting for an apology.

"I'm so sorry sir."

"And it will never happen again, will it?"

"No, sir."

"Fine."

He turns her enough that she can walk, then guides her to the elevator.    
The operator, a sleepy girl in a kick-pleated black skirt, doesn't look  
at them.  He slams the door to his suite and propels her towards a  
chair.  She watches its arm, stumbles and nearly goes down.  He watches  
until she regains her balance.

"Please, Teena, sit down.  Put your feet up.  Relax.  Any time you're  
ready, feel free to tell me what you're doing here, where Bill is, and  
why the hell I just told that man you were my wife."

*

With her hair down and her shoes off, Christina Mulder seems different.    
If not for her perpetually distracted expression, she would look  
professional enough to be one of his people.  In spite of the late hour  
\- now almost 2 am - she has insatiable energy.  She paces.  Coming past  
him, she catches one of his cigarettes and a match and lights up.  The  
blown-out match falls into an ashtray without the benefit of her glance.    
The way she stands, it takes a long time for him to realize she's  
crying.

His arms come around her from behind and rock her gently back and forth.    
Just under the collar of her dress, he can see a massive purple bruise  
marking her collarbone.  Under the makeup on her cheek, there is the  
imprint of a hand.

"Bill?" he asks.  She nods.  "Bastard."

Silence.  She cries without changing the rhythm of her breathing,  
without trembling or pressing against him.  She is suddenly shockingly  
self-sufficient.

"How did you find me?" he asks.

She says, "Bill wrote down the hotel name when you called him, then I  
suppose decided he shouldn't have.  Crumpled it up and threw it away.  I  
found the paper and took it.  I would have called you, but the number  
got lost when he ripped off the page."  She pulls a wadded paper from  
her pocket.  It has Bill Mulder's large, precise hand marked across it.

He still doesn't understand.  "Why me?"

"Why what?" she throws back bluntly.

"Why come to me?  Why tell them you're my wife?"

"Because I couldn't think of any other way to get to see you.  You don't  
have a wedding ring, but lots of men don't wear them.  It's not  
unusual."

She speaks that much of his language.  Her words are precise, she  
answers questions specifically.  She understands the value of being  
anonymous.  She understands evasion.  So does he.

"Why me?" he repeats.

"You're a friend."

"Bill's, not yours."

"With all my worldly goods I thee endow," Teena intones ironically.

"*Why*, Teena?"

"Because I didn't know where else to go.  Because you're an honourable  
man who tries to do the right thing.  Because you're decent."

He barks laughter out into the room.  "Rarely that, Teena."  His  
laughter is contagious.  She smiles, though she clearly doesn't know  
why.  He takes the cigarette from her fingers and crushes it against the  
ashtray glass.  "You shouldn't smoke," he chides.  "There's nothing as  
revolting as a lady with a Morley."

*

  
At four am the phone rings.  A distant-sounding operator asks if he will  
accept a call from William Mulder in Chilmark.  He says, of course.

For a few seconds, there is dead air.  Then, "Spender?"

"Mmm."

"Did I wake you?"

"No."  The automatic response.

"I . . . I'm sorry.  I know it's late.  It's just . . . I can't . . . my  
wife . . ."  Bill Mulder's voice cracks a little.  He takes a deep  
breath and audibly grips his composure.  "I can't find Christina.  She's  
gone."

A pause while he considers this news.  In the darkness, he gropes for a  
cigarette.  "Bill, have you been drinking?"

"Yes.  No.  It doesn't matter, I'm not drunk enough not to know if my  
wife's missing."  Another shaky breath.  Tears.  "Oh God, what if  
there's been an accident?"

"Bill, you're drunk.  There are no accidents.  You know that.  No one  
else is going to hurt Christina."  Emphasis on "else."

"What the hell do you mean?" Mulder snarls.

"The unanswerable question: when did you stop beating your wife?"

"I didn't."

"Bill."

"I - "

"Bill."  He drags the name out, makes it eight disappointed syllables.

"You knew?"

"Yes."

"I didn't mean to."

Silence.  He finds the cigarette, lights it, inhales, coughs.

When Bill doesn't continue, he prompts, "Have you called her mother?    
Her friends?"

"I have.  She isn't there.  And I was rude to them."

"Apologize tomorrow.  For now, go to bed.  I'll find Christina."

"Thank you, Keith."

Smile.  "Hey, who's your buddy?"

"You're my Stone Fox."

"I'll find her."

"I trust you," Mulder whispers.

Keith Spender hangs up and knocks cinders from his cigarette into the  
bedside ashtray.  Into the dark, he whispers, "You shouldn't."

Teena stirs.  "Who was that?"

"Your husband."

She asked him not to leave her alone, so he took her to sleep with him  
in the big hotel bed.  She lies close beside him now, dressed in a pair  
of his navy pyjama pants and a translucent undershirt.  He can see  
another bruise, just to the left of her spine, where the shirt has  
pulled up in back.  She faces the window; he lies behind her.  The  
clouds have broken and the moonlight is suddenly brilliant.

*

When Bill Mulder married Christina, Keith Spender didn't hear for nearly  
a month.  He'd spent five miserable weeks in Austria, staring into  
Hungary through half-closed eyes while the Russians undid two years of  
his work.  They were killing his people in the public squares.  It was  
all just such a bloody mess.  He came home pissy as a wet cat, ready for  
a fight he could win.  The wedding invitation had been waiting unopened  
in his D.C. mailbox.

He drove to Chilmark.

He let himself in without knocking.  He was furious.  Bill had known  
this girl for all of five months - six now.  And none of them were in a  
position to marry.  Not yet.

*For the love of God, Bill.  I could have found you someone for a night  
or two if you were feeling lonely.*

Almost immediately, he realized that Bill wasn't home.  His coat and  
overshoes were gone; the house was dark.  Boxes were piled up in the  
bare-walled Edwardian parlour, mute evidence of the recent move in.    
What had possessed his friend to remove himself to such an isolated  
place was beyond him.  Sheer stupidity.  And now there would have to be  
servants, a maid at least, and who could they possibly trust?

Music drifted in from somewhere deeper in the house.  In the absence of  
any artificial light, he followed the sound, stepping quietly around the  
clutter in the hall.  He could almost make out a patch of light slipping  
from under a closed door.  He opened it, muffling the click with one  
hand.

There was light of a sort in that room, though a heavy sheet draped over  
the lamp kept the view hazy.  High-heeled shoes kicked over on the  
floor, record playing itself out on the table.  The furniture looked  
like it had been left there to wait for some semblance of organization  
to take hold in the house.  On the couch, someone was sleeping.

And then the girl Bill had married sat up and turned those incredible  
hazel eyes on him.

"Bill?" she whispered.

"No."  He stepped into the light.  "I'm a friend of his."  She smiled  
cautiously and in spite of himself he was utterly charmed.  "Keith  
Edmund Spender."

God, she was so young.  She had to be at least six or seven years  
younger than Bill; he'd pay a mint if she was twenty-five.  Still child-  
thin and small-breasted, fragile inside her dress.  The face she offered  
him was absolutely trusting.

She was better than anything he could have picked out himself.  She was  
an innocent.  She was perfect.

"Christina Mulder," she said, still whispering.  To herself, repeating  
the name to remember it, "Keith Edmund Spender."  Then raising her eyes  
to his.  "And what am I going to call you, Mr. Keith Edmund Spender?"

Heaven help him, he didn't know for a moment.  Already, most people  
didn't call him anything beyond 'sir.'

"You choose," was what he told her.  "Spender is fine.  Keith or Edmund.    
Bill calls me Stone Fox.  It's my name from the War."

"You're the Stone Fox?"  He nodded.  Her smile widened.  "I'm . . . oh .  
. . ."  Pause.  "Bill adores you."

"I know."  Back towards the front of the house, a hall clock struck one.    
"I'm sorry.  It's very late."  He turned to go.

"Mister Spender?"

He paused at the sound of her voice.  "Yes?"

"Did you come for something?"  Confusion in her tone.

Silence.  "I came to say, Welcome to the family.  Good night Mrs.  
Mulder.  Teena."  And left.

*

In the morning he has to leave Boston; he takes her with him.  His  
driver  doesn't question her presence in the car.  Dressed again in the  
clothes she wore last night, she seems imperfect, utterly touchable.    
She has the delicacy of her make-up.  She still smells like his bed.

He doesn't know yet when he will tell Bill where she is.  Bill has been  
fragile since his time in New Mexico.  He wasn't as dedicated as they  
thought, maybe.  He drinks a lot these days, his hands shake.  He's  
married to Christina and he treats her like an enemy.  But Bill loves  
her.  He clings to her with the desperation of a drowning man.  And  
Christina has too much compassion to let him live alone.

The drive to South Carolina eats up the day and the next night.  Teena  
sleeps.  Awake, she reads a pair of pulp novels she bought at a filling  
station on the edge of Newark.  Spender watches her, memorizing her  
face.  His work lies scattered across the back seat, a tangle of  
documents, photographs, and memoranda that will have to be destroyed  
when he finishes reading them.

Abruptly, she says, "What did Bill want?"

"When?"

"Last night."

"He was looking for you."  Spender pauses, weighs how much to tell her.    
"He was crying."

"Oh," she says in a tiny voice and falls back into her book.  He goes  
back to the notes piled on his lap.

*

He can't show her this.  

He leaves Christina sleeping in a hotel room on the edge of Kingstree,  
South Carolina, the bedside clock reading 2am.  He takes the car and  
drives out himself, carefully not thinking.  His driver has orders to  
stay in the room next to Teena and guard her.  Don't let anybody hurt  
her.  

Most of the roads aren't paved, and the loose stones occasionally fly up  
and hit the car, chip the paintwork.  The place he comes to isn't marked  
on any map.  It's just a chain of cinder block hangars, a leftover from  
the War.  On the outside, there aren't any lights, and he has to let  
himself in through the barbed-wire gate that looks so much like part of  
the fence.  He parks the car, lights his cigarette on the heated metal  
the car's manufacturer provided.  He lets himself into the compound.

The Russian chemist they hired, Krycheva, perches on a lab stool and  
only looks at him briefly.  Dark-lashed green eyes flick over him and  
back to her work.  Her chin jerks towards the hallway door.

"There," she says.  Her notes are more interesting than he is.

On the other side of that door, two preteen boys are tied to folding  
chairs.  His people pace quietly in the shadows.

"Where did you find them?" he asks the dark.

"Inside.  In Section 31."

One of the boys whispers, "You have bodies."  He means the silver-gray  
skin and the organs in jars, the failed ones who died.  It will be years  
yet before they bring anything to life.

He crouches in front of the chairs.  Tap of ash on the concrete.  "You  
saw."  A nod.  "You understood you weren't supposed to be here?"  Nod.    
"You must understand, we are fighting a war.  Always.  There are  
Communists who would kill for what we have.  Russians."  Like Krycheva,  
working at her desk, not caring about politics since she's seen the  
things they do on both sides of the line.  Science is science.

He pauses, pulls on the cigarette, inhales smoke.  "We have to protect  
ourselves.  Are you good Americans?"  Two nods.  "You say the Pledge of  
Allegiance every morning?  Do you know the name of the president?"

In a whisper, "Dwight Eisenhower.  Sir."

"Do you know what he said concerning the Korean Armistice?"

The boy straightens and nods, then speaks from memory.  "'With special  
feelings of sorrow and solemn gratitude, we think of those who were  
called upon to lay down their lives in that far-off land to prove once  
again that only courage and sacrifice can keep freedom alive upon the  
Earth.'"

"That's very good."  He runs his fingertips through the child's hair and  
watches him preen a little.  "Have you ever met President Eisenhower?"

"No, sir."  The eyes half puzzled, half expectant, as if Spender might  
somehow pull the president out of a hat as their prize for getting here.

"He's a man who understands some important things.  He understands the  
danger."

The boys don't answer him, or react when he pulls back his hand.    
Gently, he asks, "Do you know how to keep a secret?"  Two emphatic nods.    
He bows a little in return and straightens, walks around behind the  
boys.  Shoots them both.  "That's right.  You keep it secret."

He turns to the shadows again.  "Make it look like a hunting accident."    
Crushes the remains of the cigarette out.

 

*

  
Christina curls herself up against the pillows and blinks when he comes  
in.  Again, she asked not to be alone, and he had to tell them she was  
his wife.  She refuses to sleep in a separate room.

He strips without looking at her.  In pajamas, he crawls into the bed  
and wonders what it would be like to have a wife and sleep beside her  
every night.  He could have that at a word.  He could marry someone.    
It's nice.  It was what Bill wanted.  He wants what Bill has.

She rolls towards him and tucks herself against his abdomen.  "I missed  
you."  He nods and wraps her up in the bedspread.

Into the dark, she says, "You're the best person I know."

"No," he says.

"Better than Bill.  Better than anyone I've met.  You're stronger than  
they are.  You know how to do the right thing."

"Oh Teena."

"Fox," she whispers.

"What?"

"Fox.  My Fox.  If Bill can call you that, I can."

"No."

"Who do you love more, Bill or me?"

"You."  Beyond question.

"Mine," she says again.  One of her hands slips under his arm and  
settles in the small of his back.  She strokes him up and down through  
the cotton and though afterwards he can't remember falling asleep, he  
must eventually.

*

He has to take her back.  Bill is shattering.

Spender calls Chilmark from the hotel room while Teena looks at dresses  
downtown with the driver to protect her.  Bill, damn him to hell, is  
hysterical.  The next words out of the man's mouth after "hello" are  
"missing persons report."  They can't have that, not now.  If there's  
going to be a public, messy search for the wife of a State Department  
man, she'll have to be dead when they find her.  It isn't a prospect  
Spender wants to contemplate.

He sends Bill back to New Mexico, telling him to bury what's left of the  
experiments.  That gives him a week.  He repeats the promise to find her,  
then threatens his colleague with hellfire if he ever hits his wife  
again.  He uses short words.  He hangs up.

He leaves the driver and takes her back himself.  The drive north to  
Massachusetts takes two days; the ferry trip to the Vineyard takes six  
hours.  Christina doesn't say anything.

The house is empty.  He's been there a half-dozen times since his first  
visit, when he met her.  As always, there's nothing of Bill in it when  
the man is absent.  The maid is gone for now, back to the mainland to  
visit her family.  Christina phoned from New York and gave her the time  
off.

He's slept beside her every night since this started, feeling her  
clothed body pressed against his.  It's convinced him that he wants a  
wife, but also that he wants Christina.  She's so beautiful, so  
innocent, so smart, and she trusts him so much.  How could he resist  
that?  It's so easy to lead her up the unlighted stairs to the bedroom.    
She stays close beside him, one hand in the small of his back as if  
she's afraid to lose contact.  On the landing, she presses her face into  
his shoulder.

They can't have a light in the bedroom, but there's still a little  
incandescence coming through the clouds outside.  The landscape on the  
other side of lace curtains is navy and grey, with the beginnings of  
green.  No brilliance anywhere, just mute Atlantic shades.  He leads  
her through this room that smells like wood polish and soft blankets  
and kisses her next to the bed.

So many buttons on the front of her dress.  They tangle in his fingers,  
come undone only reluctantly, and he bends to put his face close to her  
body while Christina's hands rest undemandingly on his shoulders.  This  
very fine grey wool is so much like her he wants to taste it.

The dress comes off her shoulders, finally, and pools around her feet.    
She steps out of it while he gathers the fabric up and presses it to his  
face.  It smells like her perfume and his cigarettes and the air on the  
coast of the Vineyard.  The slip underneath is satin and smells like her  
body.  Salty.  His cheek rests for a moment against her belly while he  
unrolls the stockings from beneath it.  Slow touches on the cold skin.    
And she leans her weight on them as each foot comes up for him to pull  
the stockings off.

"Fox," she says.  And a kiss in his hair.

He steps away from her and watches her settle in her underwear onto the  
cream chenille bedspread.  His clothes come off slowly, and she takes  
each article from him and touches it to herself before folding it away.    
Her eyes lick the hollows of his ribs.

It isn't his first intention to come to her naked, but she only waits  
when he pauses in his boxers.  He can't remember the last time he was  
naked with a woman who wasn't a whore.  He steps towards her.    
Christina's hands are warm against his waist as she eases the waistband  
over his erection.  Hot skin snaps up to brush the back of her hand, but  
she only pauses and considers him, then strokes across the root with the  
tip of one finger.

*Mine*

He leaves the boxers on the floor and folds himself next to her on the  
bed.  She comes forward to straddle his thighs and lets him take off her  
brassiere, then her panties.  More warm silk, like that slip.  He should  
take some article of hers as a war prize for this thing he's doing.  It  
would prove she's been his.

Kissing isn't something he's much done; she's better at it than he is.    
Of course she is, she's a married lady, after all.  Christina teaches  
him to kiss in this half-lighted room.  Her tongue against his teeth,  
her lower lip between both of his.  She tastes so good; he'd eat her if  
it was possible.  This mouthing is a tease.  He can taste her by now with  
the tips of his fingers, a sharp flavour like alcohol.  He's going to  
own her more thoroughly than Bill ever has.

It's Christina who finally takes the initiative, rising up on her knees  
and settling again with his erection just pressing against the wetness  
of her vagina.  She gives him a long, slow kiss, tangling tongues  
together and pushing at him.  Then settles down against him, whimpering  
a little as he penetrates her, stretching those soft muscles around his  
cock.  She's warm inside, and soft like the rest of her body.  He  
thrusts up and moans.  Her breasts in his hands tremble.

She rides him, pushing up and sliding down, shifting her hips to find  
the places inside where she wants to feel him.  So good, she's so good.    
He drops his hands from her breasts to her back so he can support her  
and buck hard.  Kissing her breastbone and the places where the bruises  
from her husband have almost faded.

He comes first, in spite of his best efforts.  When he's got enough  
control of his body again to try anything, he snakes a hand down to find  
her clitoris while she keeps rocking.  Three strokes across that little  
bit of flesh is all it takes; she's absolutely rigid there, a spot so  
tiny her can only just find it with the tip of his index finger.  She  
doesn't howl, though, only gasps and hisses his name, and his nickname,  
and then two distorted syllables that might be "love you."

A quick shift of weight lays them out with him on his back and Christina  
still straddling him and still impaled on him.  He only goes soft  
slowly, stroking her nipples and whispering words that have nothing to  
do with tests or inhuman beings or killing.

She's limp, finally, and he settles her onto her back.  Such a  
beautiful, innocent girl.  She's never asked where he was, what he did  
while he was gone that one night.  He needs someone like this, someone  
to keep close to him on the days when he can't have this woman next to  
him on the still-made bed.

But right now he can have her.  He slides toward the foot of the bed,  
rests between her thighs, and presses his nose to the stiff, dark hair.    
Salty.  A quick dart of his tongue adds taste to the smell, and  
Christina stiffens.

"Yes, Fox, please," she hisses.

He goes down on her.  She tastes soft, like his possession, like  
something he can own.  She isn't going to change, she'll be like this  
forever, this beautiful woman who reacts like wave-shocks when he runs  
his tongue over her labia and pushes delicately inside.  He puts  
everything she's taught him about kissing into this, wanting her to want  
him desperately.  Her clitoris is too tiny to suck on, but he kisses it  
gently and massages it with his lips, speaks softly against it to let  
her feel the vibrations.

"Is this good?"

"Yesssss."

Until she comes again and fills his mouth his her taste and now she  
really belongs to him.  His woman more than Bill's now.  She can live in  
his house, but that son of a bitch will never own her again.

*

The next afternoon, they make love in the back yard, nestled in old  
blankets from the garage.  He rests behind her and slips a hand under  
her thigh to raise it and pull it back.  With the other hand, he spreads  
her and slips in, then wraps that arm around her shoulders to pull her  
against him.  Thrusting gently, unable to go as deep as he was last  
night, he teases her for a long time.  She whimpers and presses back  
against him.

Kisses on her shoulder blades, on each vertebra within his reach.  All  
that skin has to be his.  She has to come first.  She does.  She's  
obviously cold, but it only heightens his touches.  Afraid the  
neighbours will hear, she pulls his hand against her mouth to muffle her  
voice, then licks his palm while her vagina clenches around him and he  
finishes in long, slow strokes.

Here in the back yard, there are shades of green.  There still isn't any  
bright light, though, and the horizon clouds suggest it might rain later.    
He wraps Christina in two of the blankets and carries her inside.

*

Bill calls at nine at night, while he's standing naked in the  
unlighted living room.  He picks up the phone without thinking.

"Hello?"

"Spender?  What . . . you're at home?"

Damn.  "Yes."

"Did you . . ."

"I found her.  She's home.  Where are you?"

William Mulder lets out a long, wet breath, as though letting go of  
tears.  "Thank you.  Oh God, thank you."

"Forget it.  Where are you, Bill?"

"Boston.  I'll be home tomorrow.  Will I see you?"

"No."  A decision.  He doesn't want to be here to see them together, to  
see Bill touch her.  "But you know you've got my best."

"Thank you, Stone Fox."

"Don't," he snaps without thinking.

"What?"  Confusion.

"Don't call me that.  Don't call me anything."

"What?"

He drags a hand across his eyes.  "Look, I'm tired.  I'm sorry.  Just .  
. . go to bed, Bill."

"Right.  Thank you."

*

He has Christina for tonight, then.  She's in the kitchen, wrapped in an  
afghan she dug out of the hall closet in the early evening.  Such  
beautiful legs.  Such a beautiful girl.  His woman.

"Teena," he whispers from the doorway.  He can see himself reflected in  
the window, an unassuming man, older than he looks.  He's been playing  
games for so many years that he expects all the time to see the results  
tattooed across his features.  It hasn't happened yet.  Clothed, he's  
just a man in black.  Naked, he's a thirty-something American male with  
brown hair getting darker as he ages, marked with a broad nose and  
cheekbones.  Christina can't see his power; he can't imagine why she  
would want him.

She comes to him across the dark room, wraps herself around him and the  
afghan around them both.  Like a wife.  He kisses her, pushing against  
the bones of her mouth with his tongue as if eating her.  Curls hands  
under her thighs and lifts her up against him.  His.  She has to be his.    
Part of him wants to fuck her against the kitchen wall.

Instead, he arches his back and lifts her further, letting her settle  
onto his cock.  Her bent legs nestle against his hips, breasts against  
his chest.  He can feel her nipples through the thin hair.  They  
wrestle into a thrusting motion, the pain in his back from supporting  
her less than what comes from the idea of losing her.  She kisses him  
and locks her arms and legs around him, whispers, "Carry me."

It's the first time he's made love to her fully in Bill's place.  After  
the first encounter on top of the bedspread, they explored the house and  
yard.  Tonight, though, he rests her back against the sheets and lets  
himself slip out while he gathers blankets around them.  It's an  
illusion, but one he likes.  Husband and wife, in bed.  It's more like  
she's his.

Christina's given up on his name.  She calls him Fox all the time.    
Whispers it into his skin when he mounts her and presses his cock into  
that tiny, soft opening.  She's so tiny inside, he always wants to be  
careful.  She's so tight he's always afraid he's going to hurt her.  But  
her knees are pulled up close against him and she's pressing him into  
her.  And so he thrusts hard, feeling the shock down his spine and  
hearing her wail.

When it comes, it's a hard orgasm for both of them.  Christina's nails  
sinking into the skin of his back hurt as badly as anything he can  
remember, but he's pounding so hard against her he can hardly object.    
The shock of orgasm hitting him feels like deeper pain, and he can't  
separate the endorphin release in his mind until much later.

She sleeps almost immediately, curling into a tight ball against his  
side.  He can't, though.  Twisting carefully, he find the cigarettes in  
the pocket of his discarded pants and lights one.  Inhales.  The smoke-  
colour is something he doesn't have to see, he knows it so well.  It's  
the colour the Vineyard's been since he got there, the colour of the  
light in this room when Christina first sank down on him.  There's fire  
in it somewhere, but he can't see it except when he pulls hard.

The night passes like that, Christina's body against his, him pulling  
cigarette after cigarette into his body.  The ashes pool in the bottom  
of a glass on the night table.  Hating Bill for his uselessness and  
his stupidity and the amazing luck the man had to find this woman.

He needs a wife of his own.

Once, Christina whispered "divorce," and he had to cover her mouth.  She  
doesn't understand yet that they can't afford a scandal for a man of  
Bill's position.  Quite the opposite, Bill now needs a family.  He can't  
quite manage the idea of her carrying that bastard's children, though.    
Maybe they can arrange something else.

The ferry comes in at eight.  At seven forty-five Spender's out of bed  
and dressed.  Christina hasn't moved yet.  Properly, he should make her  
dress in nightclothes at least, but he doesn't want to wake her.  Let  
her sleep, let Bill think she fell asleep like that because she was too  
tired to find pajamas; it's close enough to the truth to hide the lie.

He isn't going to give Christina up.  He needs a wife, but not someone  
to replace this woman who trusts him absolutely.  He kisses her hair.

The back door screams a little on its hinges, but no one's going to hear  
it.  No one's going to see his car parked half a mile away.  Bill's only  
just coming up the drive, and Spender's setting off cross-country.  The  
invisible man.  He grins a little.

Around the corner of the house, he can just see Bill come flying toward  
the door like an ecstatic lover.

Damn.

He doesn't want to think about it.  Another cigarette, then.  He lets it  
rest in his mouth for a long time before he lights up, feeling the wet  
tobacco taste.

Then he walks out, realizing only belatedly that the sheets will smell  
like cigarettes, and neither Bill nor Christina smokes.


End file.
